An Unusual Situation
by Thelexpiea
Summary: An educational trip to the local pub... S/J slash, and less cracky than I expected.


Sherlock frequently found himself in what casual bystanders would term "unusual situations." He felt that the bizarre and unexpected were familiar allies, facing off against the onslaught of dull predictability. It was almost a pleasant surprise to discover that he wasn't quite sure why he had ended up sitting in this particular pub, on this particular night. The pub wasn't so difficult; it was John's favourite. It was also karaoke night – the elderly woman and harassed looking young man muddling through "Total Eclipse of the Heart" made that fact inescapably clear – and this was where he got lost. Sherlock huddled defensively in his chair, and glowered. It had been a difficult night: decisions had been made, doctors may not have been fully consulted, and guns may have been fired... at consulting detectives. Nothing too unusual, but it had all culminated in John calling him an idiot while giving him a _look_.

Sherlock had been having troubles with John's looks. They were unexpectedly absorbing, and he frequently found himself distracted from crime scenes, experiments, conversations, and corpses with attempts to deduce every nuance of meaning. Given the earlier events, and the doctor's usual response to such situations, Sherlock felt that John had likely coupled his _look_ (anger thinly layered over worry, fear beginning to fade, and just a hint of exasperation) with a demand for beer. And thus, pub. Simple. Acceptable, even. There was a set precedent of pub visits following Sherlock 'being an idiot.' And then, it was karaoke night. No permutation of the facts could justify the karaoke.

"John, what is that woman doing?"

The doctor looked up (the exasperation had grown, supported by relief and... affection?), "She's singing, Sherlock..." He winced at a particularly driven note, "Or trying, anyway."

The detective's right eyebrow answered for him.

"Yes, yes, we'll head home soon. I only put one song in – shouldn't be too much longer."

The left eyebrow joined its partner. "You... put a song... When? Why?"

Sherlock absorbed John's relaxed, not-even-angry-at-all laugh with relief, "Surprised? I thought you 'saw everything, and had it all under control.' If you must know: when I ordered our drinks, and because that is generally what one does on a karaoke night." He paused, smiling wickedly, "Also, after the stunt you pulled today, you need to be taught a lesson."

In the months since John Watson had moved into his life, Sherlock had seen many expressions cross the doctor's face – it had been stubborn, angry, patient, amused, exasperated (common enough to have its own sub-categories), happy, serious, relieved. Never had he seen his flatmate look so mischievous. Sherlock's mouth went dry; his brain stalled for a split second, "... I hardly know what you're talking about."

John's grin was almost predatory, "Oh, I imagine you'll puzzle it out." Sherlock decided this was the most intriguing of all the looks John had worn, and that he should file away every nuance for further consideration.

The woman across the bar warbled to an end, and tottered back to her seat. Divorced twice, obviously made late-life choices to reject traditional social expectations. Dull. "Johnny boy! You're up next darling!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the familiar tone, frowning as his doctor laughed with the flirtatious voice, collecting his microphone, "... know, not my usual..."

When John turned and began walking back towards their table, Sherlock began to feel a wee bit suspicious. He had been so taken with how... adorably... pleased with himself John had been, that the detective hadn't bothered to deduce why his companion's mood had changed so drastically. He was beginning to suspect that this had been a grave miscalculation.

The doctor lifted the microphone as unfamiliar music began to play, "Whenever life gets you down, Mr Holmes," Sherlock's eyes widened, "And things seem hard or tough. And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft, and you feel that you've had quite enough!" John's conversational tone slipped, and soared skillfully away with the last word.

His voice dropped with the next lines, and he fixed Sherlock with another one of those mouth-drying, brain-stalling _looks_. The detective was pinned, and almost didn't register the meanings associated with the sounds John was... crooning at him. Almost. And then he did.

"Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving

And revolving at nine hundred miles an hour.  
>That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned,<br>A sun that is the source of all our power."

John would forever lament the fact that Sherlock had once again taken the doctor's phone, leaving him unable to photograph the look of purest disbelief, and slowly dawning horror creeping across his flatmate's face. He winked at the detective, and glanced back at the screen – it wouldn't do to confuse his numbers now.

"The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see  
>Are moving at a million miles a day<br>In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour,  
>Of the galaxy we call the 'Milky Way'."<p>

As John looked away, Sherlock's brain stuttered back into gear, and his ego scrambled to regain control of his facial features. A small part of his mind suggested that he ought to be offended by the doctor once again publicly needling the solar system issue, but even it could barely take itself seriously. The majority of Sherlock's brain was focusing on just how pleased John looked with himself for throwing the detective off-kilter. Another, much smaller corner of his mind coughed, waved some dust off, and hypothesized that if Sherlock were to slow the recovery of his composure, then John would continue to _look_ at him (amusement, affection, and a delicious hint of superiority). Really, the wink had already settled the matter.

"Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars.  
>It's a hundred thousand light years side to side.<br>It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light years thick,  
>But out by us, it's just three thousand light years wide."<p>

John was turning back to face him, swaying slightly with the tune. Sherlock allowed his mouth to fall open slightly as the dusty corner of his mind assured him that the doctor's response would be well worth the compromised dignity. John grinned, and began waltzing closer to the table. Definitely worthwhile.

"We're thirty thousand light years from galactic central point.  
>We go 'round every two hundred million years,<br>And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions  
>In this amazing and expanding universe."<p>

The lyrics were replaced with a fluorescent countdown indicating 'interlude: 35 seconds.' Plopping dramatically into the seat beside Sherlock, John leaned over and murmured, "Learnt anything yet?"

Sherlock turned to examine the newly excavated corner of his mind (happily occupied with the tickling of John's breath on his earlobe) and considered the possibility he had discovered something quite momentous about himself. "... Perhaps I have," he admitted. Hopefully he sounded grudging.

John smiled at him again (familiar, affectionate and patient – no longer his favourite, Sherlock's mind confirmed), "Good. Now pay attention, this is the important bit." To his credit, Sherlock did not nod like an obedient schoolboy as John raised the microphone.

"The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding  
>In all of the directions it can whizz<br>As fast as it can go, at the speed of light, you know,  
>Twelve million miles a minute, and that's the fastest speed there is."<p>

He didn't stand up. It was one thing, the detective decided, to be sung at from across the room. But sitting next to him, _looking_ at him, it was sending dust skittering away from all sorts of interesting places.

"So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure,  
>How amazingly unlikely is your birth."<p>

John had leaned in, his look (all earnest conviction and John-ness) trying to beat his message through Sherlock's head with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. It was so very, very John. The detective almost smiled at the charming predictability of his doctor... Then _that_ look was back, all wicked humour and affectionate mockery, and that great, rational brain stalled so completely that Sherlock's knees would have given way.

"And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space,  
>'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth."<p>

Sherlock kissed him. John had shifted, scooting his chair back in order to return the microphone. That slight movement forward triggered a very, very dusty instinct, and before either of them knew which way was up, the good doctor was receiving the snog of his life. He was surprised, certainly, but it didn't take long for his hand to slide up and start exploring Sherlock's messy hair. This, apparently, was one of the great brain's many on-switches; the detective jerked back, doing a credible impression of a rabbit caught in the vegetable patch. Cheers and catcalls were being offered up by the other patrons.

"Right," John nodded, seemingly to himself, and resolutely marched across the pub. Sherlock sat. Ignoring the many affectionate hecklers, John resolutely marched straight back to his table. Sherlock continued to sit: eyebrows slightly furrowed, his mind raced to process what exactly had just come over him. John gave him a quick, calculating look, and then resolutely collected his pint and downed the lot of it.

"Right. Sherlock, I think it's time to go home."

He stood with the air of a man who hadn't quite resolved which way the ground was, and consequently expected to fall over at any moment. John patiently waited for Sherlock's wits as they gathered themselves up to tackle walking. They made their way back to the flat in silence. Sherlock quickly folded himself onto his couch; John, ever patient, left him to process the evening, and settled in to his very comfortable tea-brewing routine.

When he returned to find the detective still immobile, his patience began to come just a little undone. Sitting in his chair, he sipped his tea, and determined to wait until Sherlock spoke first – he had started everything earlier, anyway. He took another sip of tea. Sherlock sat. John's stubbornness held out for another heroic quarter-cup of tea before he sighed and asked, "So. Finished yet?"

Sherlock was, in fact, 'finished.' After the initial shock, the data on hand had been simple to process, and the conclusions regarding his own mind were obvious, if unexpected. Sherlock had deduced he was in love with John Watson before they reached the door of the pub. What he currently lacked was conclusive information on his companion's mental state. His mind flashed back to the feeling of John's hand running possessively up the back of his head – an excellent feeling, but far from sufficient evidence to act on his current desires for his near future. So he watched, recorded, analyzed every move, every sound, and of course every expression to slip across his doctor's face.

He hadn't really expected a response. John knew his flatmate well enough to know the man was buried in thought. Of course, the deep and studious examination of his own mug following the question meant he missed any shift in facial expression – in this case, the hopeful flicker of the detective's eyes glueing themselves to the doctor's face. John reasoned with his tea that as long as he had known Sherlock, he had displayed the emotional development of an unripe grapefruit. Consequently, he likely had very little idea what his dusty instincts had started, or what was normally done or said next. When Sherlock was uncertain, he collected data. Frowning at his tea, John forced himself to acknowledge that other than a timely and educational 'talk' with Mrs. Hudson, there was really only once source of relevant information. The tea steamed supportively at him. Sherlock had somehow managed the hardest part, anyway. And, John reminded himself, he invaded Afghanistan. He took a deep breath of steam and began talking to his teacup.

"Right. I suppose it was too much to hope you would be finished, since I'm not sure you even know what you started. 'Not your area' and all that. Not sure it's my area either; I can't say I've ever been snogged by my flatmate before. Granted, my previous flatmates weren't..." he coughed. "Well, observant as you are, you ought to have deduced my thoughts on the matter, but maybe you're missing a bit of context. Less than a day after Mike introduced us, I killed a man to save your life. After that first month, I started setting my passwords to try and make you laugh. I've remembered how you like your tea since the fourth day we moved in. The stunt you pulled earlier left me more terrified than I can ever remember being. I think you like my singing, and that – that thought makes it hard to remember how to breathe. Really, though, I think there's only one thing you might not already know. I don't think I can last much longer without tasting you again. Can I..."

"Oh, god yes," Sherlock finally interrupted.

The tea was very surprised to find itself on the floor, John's attention having been firmly stolen by an armload of consulting detective.

A/N: This started as a cracked-out image that popped in to my head while bicycling to work awhile back. I'm not entirely sure where all the mushy romance came from, but I'm hardly going to edit out gratuitous slash, now am I? The chapter title is a save-file typo that was too happy a coincidence to delete!


End file.
